A Flappy Tale
by NotAnotherFanFic
Summary: Michael Orson is a rancher with a passion for his work. When Michael begins to raise a rare species of Vietnamese avian known as flappies, he prepares to start competitive flappy racing. When Michael discovers the birds are put through tortuous obstacle courses during the races, he swears to bring down this new inhumane form of gambling, despite threats from scandalous higher-ups.


A Flappy Tale

**Chapter One**

Michael Orson took the long brown rope out of his bag. It was used, tattered, and frayed at the ends, but all-in-all it was still a very strong rope. "A wrangling rope" thought Michael excitedly. He began to skillfully tie a lasso at one of the ends. Michael had been wrangling since he was only six years old. His father William owned the ranch he worked on, as did his grandfather before him, and his great-grandfather respectfully. The Orson family ranch had been passed down for the last seven generations in all. Dating back over two-hundred years, the Orsons had been considered the best ranchers in their region for as long as anyone could remember. Michael was particularly excited today, for the ranch's brand-new edition to its family had finally arrived just last week. Nine baby _avibus deest, _also known as Flappy Birds, or simply "flappies" were hatched from the eggs they purchased from a local breeder. Researchers were attempting to domesticate flappies into North America from their homeland of Vietnam. Flappies were round, fat, and limbless except for two long wings on either side of their bodies. They moved around by "flapping" their wings which allowed them a second or two of air time, thus is their name. Flappies could reach phenomenal air by continuously flapping their wings, and rumors of "flappy racing" were beginning to come around, with trainers helping their flappies reach maximum control and endurance of their wings' flapping patterns. Overall, flappies were extremely docile and loving creatures who are very loyal to the owner that treats them with love. Michael was looking forward to possibly raising a group of these intriguing, foreign avian.

Michael was fairly strong for his age. He was twenty, had his high school diploma and a good moral compass. He had short black hair which was consistently matted by the weight of his brown, leather cowboy hat which was virtually attached to his own scalp; some say it was so iconic that even close friends might not have recognized him without it on. He was strong and in shape, with a nice toned body and a six-pack. His father William was fifty-seven, and despite his old age was also in great shape and had a full head of long, dark brown hair. Michael took a lighter out of his leather boot and attempted to fuse the frayed ends. His father came out of the barn across the field and yelled to Michael. "Ya' ready?" Michael smiled, putting away the lighter; "Absolutely!"

Michael ran to the barn and looked inside the pen where the flappies were. There they were: nine hopping birds, energetic and rambunctious. If anything flappies sure grew fast. In just a week's time they had gone from being the size of a golf ball to almost two-and-a-half feet wide. By next week they'd be full-size, and come up almost to Michael's shoulder. Michael and William began taking the birds, one at a time, out into the wider open range. After they wrestled the ninth and final bird (who had inconveniently attempted to run away to explore the ranch property multiple times) into the pasture, they got down to business. The flappies were hoping around like crazy; they were extremely happy and excited to be in such an expansive and unseen environment. Michael readied his lasso and took aim at the largest of the bunch, a red flappy with a large, orange beak.

He aimed the shot perfectly and with one toss the lasso was around the flappy's body. It began to frantically lash about, scared for its life. Michael held strong, and eventually the flappy grew tired. William walked over to the bird and caressed it gently. Slowly, the flappy calmed and it begun to acclimate to the lasso. With this position, newborn flappies could safely train their never-before-used wings. Michael's goal was to get at least two of his flappies strong enough to compete in a local flappy race tournament just a few towns over. It would be the first race anywhere in the region, and countless ranchers and breeders were excited. Flappy races were rumored to be even more exciting than horse races. While the logistics and requirements of the races were still unknown to the newcomers, the rumors all had one common factor: the racing flappies needed to have perfect control of their flapping, and good physical endurance. Michael intended to train his flappies to be the best in the region, or hell even the country. Michael Orson was an extremely passionate person, especially when it came to ranching and anything related to his work. As William began to help the flappy move its wings correctly, Michael remembered he still needed to name the newest editions to their family. He stared at the big, red flappy he had lassoed as it began to successfully flap a few feet off the ground. "Pilot" he thought as William continued to spot the flappy. "Your name is Pilot."

_To Be Continued..._


End file.
